


Children

by ItsJaya



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Robin: Son of Batman (Comics)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, someone come save these kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 13:10:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20930777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsJaya/pseuds/ItsJaya
Summary: Sometimes, Mara wants to murder her cousin. Sink her blade deep into his flesh. Other times, all she wants is a friend to talk to.





	Children

Mara al Ghul was told at a young age that she’d have to work harder. That she’d have to prove her worth. That otherwise she’d be off and done forth. That Damain al Ghul was not her cousin. Not her partner. Not even an acquaintance. He was an enemy. “He will not hesitate to kill you,” her tutor whispers one day, Damian stretching not too far from her. “Try attacking him.” _ If you fail, you will pay dearly _, her head throbs.

And she prepares, her muscles tensing, fists gripping, breath hitching. Her legs don’t move. She can’t bring herself to. Damian catches her gaze and his expression twists into an ugly snarl. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” she mutters and her tutor stiffens by her side. 

_ Failure. Failure. Failure. _

.

.

.

Damian al Ghul was told at a young age that he would bring brilliance to the world. That he was destined for greatness. Alexander the Great who? He would be better than him, he tells himself. He’ll go down in history. People will write poetry and ballads based on his conquests. And when he joins his father, they will rise above all. 

He tells his cousin this. She stares at him with a judging look, eyes burning with jealousy and he loves it. _ Let it sink in _ , his tongue wants to hiss. _ I am superior. _

She will not accept it- he knows this well. She will either cave into her hatred one day and he will have no choice but to kill her, or she will be banished just like her father. “I wouldn’t be so confident,” she tells him one day, clutching her bleeding side. His dagger is slick and shiny. He twirls it in front of her face, tempted to respond but he’s been taught better. Don’t waste your breathe with those inferior to you. If you must speak to them, then it should only be to command them.

_ Success _ , his brain hisses. _ We’re succeeding _.

.

.

.

When they were younger, they’d play together for hours. She’d chase him and never, ever catch him. They’d praise their grandfather and his mother, mock different assassins and design traps.

They’d compete, seeing who could last the longest without food and not plunge into weakness.

Who could hold their breath longer whilst being forced to stay underwater?

Who could hit the target the most often?

Who could lose their childish mentality the fastest?

.

“Skin all these animals,” they are told. The smell is putrid, but there is a certain pleasure to seeing the skin slide off of a deer. Damian doesn’t seem to agree. His nose is wrinkled and he’s stroking the deer’s fur. _ Weak _, she is glowing on the inside. Finally, a weakness shown. 

“What even is the use?” he inquires to her surprise. It had been a while since he addressed her. “I mean, mother said once my training is done I’ll need not worry about any of my basic bodily needs and even if I am hungry, there are other dishes that seem more appealing to feast on.”

“Is it even physically possible to ignore bodily needs? The urge to urinate and pass stool are obviously unavoidable.”

“Of course it is,” he snaps. She rolls her eyes. He had an annoying habit of clinging on to any statement her precious aunt would utter. “Probably not for you. I’m obviously superior.”

“By blood only,” she tells him, and she knows she’s playing with fire. “I’m better than you in quite a few aspects.” 

“Nonsense,” he waves his hand, standing up. “Give it some time and I’ll pass you in everything.”

“Not in this,” she gestures towards the carcasses, “you can’t seem to hurt an animal, whether dead or alive.”

His face twists uglily. “Yeah, well you can’t seem to master a single language other than English and Arabic and-”

“I don’t care about language or education. In our field, all that matters is the ability to fight.”

“Doesn’t mean you should be stupid.”

“Not knowing more than a few languages is not stupidity. It’s called focusing on what matters.”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, laying down. “It doesn’t matter. When I conquer the world, I’m going to ban hunting.” 

.

“What even is death?” she asks one night. They are somewhere in Afghanistan and the village in front of them is burning, red and hot. The children are wailing. He doesn’t respond, but huddles closer to him. From afar, her aunt’s eyes narrow sharply.

.

“How old are you now, young one?” Talia asks her as they walk down a dark corridor, a servant holding a lantern, leading the way.

“Eight,” she responds, hoping the excitement sparked by being addressed by her aunt is not too notable. “Damian and I are but a few months apart.”

“You have progressed quite a lot,” and the conversation does not carry on. 

Mara glows with pride. 

.

“Mother says I’ll probably meet Father soon,” he tells her after they’re done running. “I nearly bested her last time so undoubtedly, I shall be victorious next month.” 

“And then what?” she asks, and he just smiles, eyes somewhere distant and far. Her question goes unanswered, but she can’t help but wallow in self-pity for the rest of the day. He’ll get to meet her father whilst she is never sure whether hers is alive or dead. Her own mother is absent in her life. 

She is eight and weak and stupid and a female. If she had been born a male, she would be the heir, she tells herself knowing it not to be the truth. Talia rose high and powerful amongst a league that glorified a male figure. She ruled with an iron fist and was respected by all. 

“Gender is not an issue,” Talia once told her, and it took all her strength not to scoff at her aunt. “You have all the resources you need, child. Use them properly.”

“How did you get so strong?” she asks one day during a rare “family” dinner. Talia sloshes her drink, smiling brightly. 

“I conquered my emotions, sweetheart.”

.

.

.

Damian loses to his mother on his ninth birthday. He is crushed, destroyed, purposeless. He cannot meet his father. Again. Again. Again. Again. 

He tears at his hair, punches the wall, murders his mother’s servants, shouts at no one and everything. 

“Something is holding you back,” Talia had stroked his sweaty hair back, blood trickling down the side of her face. He burned with raging hatred, wishing nothing more than to strike her face with his broken hands. “Find out what.”

He has strength. He has weapons. His training is complete. She had recently told Mara to conquer her emotions, but what did that even mean? He felt nothing other than greed and pain, and his tutors had informed him that those two emotions could be utilized the most in a battle.

Weak. Weak. Weak. The mirrors in his room mock him. The cowl that once belonged to his father spread out before him laughs aloud. His eyes burn. He is weak. Weak. weak.

.

.

.

She doesn’t know exactly when it happens, but her cousin stops speaking to her completely. He’d had these phases over the past few years in which he thought he was far too superior to utter a word directed at her, but this was different. He was barely even glancing at her. He had plunged into training, caring not about anything else.

It makes her upset. So what if he lost? At least he was not her. 

As he grunts and bleeds and breaks, she burns and burns and burns.

“Good,” her tutor tells her. “Let that build up. Remember every sneer. Every disgrace you've faced. Let it boil in you. When it overflows, then you will cause true damage.” The kettle begins to whistle and the chai spills over the sides, the fire beneath it bursting with new found anger. Mara understands. 

.

.

.

Damian was not expecting it. He was not expecting to wake up with a knife pressed to his throat and see green eyes, glowing. “Mara?” he chokes out before he reacts as he does with every other assassination attempt. Only issue is, she’s the tiniest person sent to kill him. So when his tiny fingers grasp her bony wrist and he tries to flip himself over her, they both tumble down together, rolling together wrapped in his blanket. His fingers curl around her neck, nails sinking in. “Stop.” But she’s angry. So angry.

Why is she so angry?

The knife digs into his shoulder blade and she rips it out swiftly. He hears the metal clatter next to him, feels the blood seeping out, smells her anticipation. 

“That’s what you get for not talking to me,” she chokes out and he blinks, letting her go. There’s silence, and he’s not sure if the tears on his face are hers or his. They must be hers, he tells himself. Future leaders don’t cry for no reason. 

“I was busy,” he sounds so small. Disgusting. There’s silence. “I thought someone sent you after me.”

“Ch, no one has to pay me to try and kill you. I told you, you were ignoring me.” 

“You’re such a baby.” SIlence. “I lost again.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t supposed to.”

“There’s next time.”

“It’s always ‘next time’,” he hisses, his shoulder pulsing. He sits up and turns towards her. “If by next time I don’t win her, then you and I shall go find him by ourselves.” 

She sits up now, smiling. “You’ll take me with you?” 

“I see no reason for you not to join,” and happiness swallows her whole before he continues, “I’ll need someone to serve me.” Her fist swings towards his already wounded shoulder and he grunts, but does not strike her back or shoot back a mean comment. “Try harder next time,” he tells her before she leaves the room and she cannot seem to smile or mean it from her heart when she ensures him she will.

**Author's Note:**

> I headcanon Talia and Mara's relationship to be similar to Cersei and Sansa's. I wish we'd get a comic series exploring the Al-Ghul dynamics more.


End file.
